


Worth

by WithoutBringingMeDreams



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Post 4x07
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:37:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1306795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithoutBringingMeDreams/pseuds/WithoutBringingMeDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post 4x07, pre 4x08. Ian's POV, since we haven't gotten much of that this season.</p><p>Mickey brings Ian home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Somewhere in the foggy distant recesses of his mind, Ian heard brakes squeal. Not the brakes of the vehicle he was in—this one seemed to coast along smoothly with minimal jarring, which he was fucking grateful for.  His cheek was smashed against the seat and any big bumps would have set off his growing headache.

Hopefully the nice car meant whoever-it-was had money. Money to pay him with, money he could use to get a motel or something the next day, where he could shower and sleep with a real mattress, instead of on the rotten wood floor of whatever abandoned piece of shit building he found to crash in. 

Couldn’t risk going back to Monica’s place. Not when Lip and Debbie had found him there.

Memories of their surprise appearance crowded out some of his fog, and he winced. He didn’t want to remember. Because as happy as he’d been when he’d first seen them, the pain and the confusion and the sense of failure had quickly wiped all that away. Wiped it clear away and left him scrambling to lose himself again, in a new place, in a new life, or in a new dose of whatever drugs he could get his hands on. Whatever it took to make the doubts and the guilt of walking out on his family go away.

Speaking of, he hoped Mr. Whoever had those party favors he had promised. He needed something, and quick.

“Ian?” A hand gripped his shoulder. “Hey, you awake?”

The fog vanished, cut sharply as if sliced by those words. It couldn’t really be, could it? Not him. Not now.

Fingers poked at his eyelids. “Hey, you in there? Say something, you fuckhead.”

His eyes were pried open, but he couldn’t focus. There was blur of white and black peering down at him.

“Ian!”

“Mickey?” The name scratched its way out of his throat without his permission.

“Fuck.” Less of a curse and more of a sigh emerged from the blur. “You stupid shit. What the hell are you on?”

Ian’s eyes drifted closed again. Mickey was here. Mickey was in the car with him, in the backseat, sitting watch over his slumped body. Mickey had come to see him at the club and Mickey had…

His brow crinkled as realization struck. “I…danced for you?”

“Yeah, let’s not relive that. You were high as a fucking kite, Jesus.”

Sure, that made sense—Ian almost nodded as his brain tried to connect all the dots. What didn’t make sense was Mickey. Mickey there. Mickey beneath him as he rolled his hips, as he straddled the man he’d loved for ages but barely ever been able to touch…

“Why?”

“Who the fuck knows what’s going on in your fucked-up brain?” Mickey responded.

But that wasn’t the question Ian had meant to ask. He wanted to know why _Mickey_ had done it. Sat there and let Ian do all that, in public, in a _gay_ club…

He tried to form this new, more specific question, but his lips didn’t want to cooperate.

“Where’re you staying?” Mickey demanded, shaking his shoulder when sleep was just about to claim him again. “We’ll go get your shit. I’m taking you home.”

Pain surfaced then, stabbing Ian straight through his forehead. The full-blown headache he’d been expecting had made its appearance.

“No,” he mumbled. “Can’t.”

“Your family needs you, shithead, or don’t you remember what I said.”

There was so much tension beneath Mickey’s words. Anger? And it hadn’t escaped even what little there was alert in Ian’s mind that after those first few _Ians_ out of Mickey’s mouth, he’d been referred to as nothing but a series of curse words.

Now this fresh pain added itself to the rest of his raw wounds and a small moan escaped his lips. “No. Please, no.”

“Hey, hey.” Fingertips pressed into his shoulder. “Easy. I won’t take you to your place, okay? You can crash at mine until you…until you feel better.”

Ian’s eyes fluttered open again. He wished he could make out Mickey’s face better. Those last words had seemed almost…tender.

But who was he fucking kidding? Mickey Milkovich, tender? Yeah fucking right.

“I wouldn’t take you there like this, anyway,” Mickey added. “They’d freak. And there’s been enough freakin’ going on there lately.”

The worst blow yet nearly made Ian vomit as guilt burned through his stomach and up his dry throat. He was just one more source of pain for his fucked-up family.

“Ian. Ian, listen to me...”

Ian, Ian, Ian. Who was Ian, anyway?

“ _Ian_.”

He startled back into himself as Mickey shook his shoulder roughly.

Mickey was calling him Ian again?

“Wha?”

“Where were you staying? I need the address so I can tell this fool where to go.”

It felt like it would take more energy than he had to speak again, so Ian reached into his pocket and handed over his cellphone.

“What is this? Jesus, will you just fucking talk? Is it in the GPS app or something?”

Ian brought a finger up to his face and tapped his nose.

“Asswipe,” Mickey muttered under his breath. “Is it the last address in here?”

Ian touched his nose again.

“You better be right, or I don’t care how fucked up you are. I will wake your ass up with a goddamn punch to the face if you’re wasting my time.”

Ian almost, almost smiled. That was his Mickey, all right. His Mickey. Calling him Ian, finding him in a gay club, watching over him, bringing him home to sober up, taking _care_ of him—

Except, that wasn’t the Mickey he knew…was it?

The car grew quiet again after Mickey barked orders to the driver. Nothing but the hum of tires over road and soft breaths, in and out, in and out, broken up by the occasional sigh. 

Ian fell back into the comforting fog.

 

****

 

“Drive!" 

Some time later, the slam of a car door broke open the cocoon of his drug-fueled and sleep-deprived haze.

How long had he been out for, anyway? Not very long—he was still in the car, but as he squinted through his lashes he could make out his duffel bag lying on the floor in front of him.

The car’s engine roared back to life and Mickey grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “You piece of shit!” he spat. “This? You left for this? That was not a place to stay, you asshole. That was a goddamn burnt-out church with fucking crackhead squatters. Are you fucking crazy?”

Ian winced. It wasn’t like he’d been there long. And he never left anything valuable there, anyway. Just some fucking clothes that could easily be replaced when he found a good tipper.

“You’re a piece of shit,” Mickey repeated, but his voice was hoarse, somehow. Like it was half-strangled by… by something. “You left me with that knocked-up slut that I have to fucking lie next to every night for this? Shit. Just… fuck! I thought you were out pursuing your fucking dream or some shit while I was living my fucking hell…but _this_? You left me for _this_?”

Mickey’s voice cracked on the last word, and Ian knew then what had been lurking beneath the surface of his rant, of everything he’d said that night, even.

Fucking _tears._

“Fuck you,” Mickey said, voice nothing but a whisper now. “Fuck you, Gallagher. You’d…you’d better fucking be asleep right now. Out cold, you hear me?”

Ian didn’t move.

Fingertips came to rest along his temple for a few moments, then began gently brushing through his hair.

“Fuck I missed you. Please don’t…” A long, shuddering sigh interrupted Mickey’s choked words. “Please don’t leave me again.”

 _Oh, Mickey._ Tears pressed up against Ian’s own closed lids as the final puzzle pieces fell into place.

Mickey was bringing him _home._ Because that love—the love that Ian had always believed in—was there. No doubt about it now. It was there and it had made Mickey go to lengths almost unimaginable to find him and bring him back safe. And if Mickey thought Ian was still worth something—to him, to his family—then maybe, just maybe, he was. Maybe he _could_ go back and be a part of their lives again.

“You’d better be fucking passed out,” Mickey said again. He’d regained some control over his voice, but his hand hadn’t stopped caressing Ian’s temple. “You’d better not remember a word I just said.”

The most peaceful call to sleep Ian had had in ages crept up on him. Still, he struggled against it for as long as he could, his last moments of consciousness devoted to one single thought.

_Please, let me remember._


	2. Upswing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of my post 4x07 fic-- arriving at Mickey's.

“Jesus. Fuck.”

Grunts and harsh jerks pulled Ian back to consciousness again. He wondered how long it would last this time.

“You just had to get so damn tall.”

The hum of the car engine had stopped, and an all-too-familiar sound took its place—the train passing by, rattling the nearby buildings and kicking up dust. Ian could almost taste the metal in the air…unless that was drops of his own blood tainting his senses.

He was unceremoniously tugged from the car and into the night air, where he sank to the ice-cold concrete.

“Goddammit Gallagher.” More muttered curses met Ian’s ears, and this time he was able to place the voice. The last few hours—or at least, parts of it—floated back to him.

He was at Mickey’s.

“Mandy!” Mickey’s voice exploded near his ear. He would’ve recoiled, but even that movement seemed not worth the effort.

A door swung open and porch steps creaked. “What the fuck, Mickey? What’d you do to him?”

Ah, Mandy. Always on his side. Well, as much of his side as he’d let her see. He’d never told her the whole truth of who he was—of who he loved.

 “Shut up and help. I didn’t do a damn thing. He’s fucking wasted.” 

Soon two pairs of arms were tugging at Ian, trying to make him rise from the much-more-appealing horizontal position. They eventually succeeded in getting him up, but he hung as mostly dead weight over Mickey’s left shoulder.

“Dammit Ian, use your fucking feet,” Mickey commanded, and surprisingly, Ian felt his legs respond. One foot, then the other. Rinse and repeat. Sure, he could do that.

Well, so long as the Milkovich siblings kept him steady on either side.

They led him into the house, where the same old wooden boards groaned under his clumsy feet. It was nice to know some things hadn’t changed in the time he’d been gone, since everything in his world…in his _head_ just hadn’t stopped spinning.

A car horn blared from outside in long, impatient bursts.

“Fuck, get him to lie down,” Mickey said, passing Ian’s weight over to Mandy. “I gotta pay that jackass.”

Mickey took off down the hallway to his room from the sounds of it, probably to grab more cash—that ride couldn’t’ve been cheap.

“C’mon, Ian.” Mandy’s thin arms started to drag him towards the living room. “Let’s get you to the couch.”

Ian managed to pry his eyes open just slightly, because it had been a while since he’d seen her face. She was still so pretty, maybe not in the traditional model-sense, but in that intriguing, unique beauty kind of way. Just like her brother.

Mickey came to a halt in front of them right before they reached the promised comfort of the couch.  “Not there. Put him in my room.”

Mandy stared at him with patented _what-the-fuck_ eyes, and Mickey stared back with his own ice-blue glare.

“Just fucking do it.” The honking started up again and Mickey turned away. “Yeah, hold your fucking horses, asshole!”

Mandy sighed.  “Ian, you idiot. What the hell were you thinking?”

She didn’t elaborate and Ian wasn’t sure which part of his life she was referring to—the coming home fucked up as this, or the part where lying him on Mickey’s bed made any sort of sense.

But Mickey’s bed did make sense. It made lots of sense to him. And to his tired body, which suddenly found new strength as he managed to stagger forward, down the hallway, and to that old haven. He flopped onto the bed, deliberately keeping his eyes closed, so he could imagine the walls still plastered with Mickey’s childhood posters, and so he wouldn’t have to see any traces of… _her_.

“Where…where is she?” he croaked.

“Oh, he speaks,” Mandy answered, her voice cutting. “And it isn’t to say hello to his best fucking friend that he’s been ignoring for _days._ You’re such an ass, you know? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

He should feel bad, he knew, but his mind bounced right off that feeling and back to his original thought. “Is she here?”

“No, she’s at work. She’ll be home soon, though, and won’t this be a great big clusterfuck. Jesus, Ian, what were you thinking? _Mickey?_   Why the fuck would you ever want to do something like that? You know what an asshole he is.”

A bitter grin formed at her words. He knew it would’ve been the appropriate time to defend Mickey, but if Mickey had chosen to play the part—to never explain to her why he was married or what had gone on between them—then who was he to break the image?

“And now you’re fucking smiling,” Mandy went on. She hit his arm. “Seriously, Ian. He’s got a _kid_ coming. And I know you—“ She paused and he felt her shake slightly, as though cringing—“I know you and him had your thing, but I just…I just don’t want you to get hurt, you know? I love my brother, seriously, but he’s an ass. You deserve better.”

Did he? Ian wasn’t so sure. Maybe once, he’d thought he had. Or he’d told himself he did, and so he’d left town with a dream of putting all this pain behind him. But he hadn’t found better. He’d found worse, and worse, and worse. So now this, this lying on Mickey’s marital bed, _this_ was his better.

It was almost the _best._ Usually it took something a lot stronger than a thought to break his dark moods, but even in this semi-conscious state he could feel his thoughts begin to take an upswing. Because he’d realized something on that car ride home, something that made him feel triumphant and powerful.

“He loves me.”

Mandy snorted. “You _are_ fucking high. Mickey doesn’t _love_. He cares about shit, sure. But he’s not into that whole love thing.”

“He came to find me.”

“Because I fucking sent him.”

“You don’t know him like I do.”

“Yeah, I don’t know my own fucking brother,” she shot back. Ian still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he could almost hear the roll of hers. “You are so wasted, I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you right now.”

A shadow came to block some of the light filtering through Ian’s closed lids. “Out,” Mickey barked.

Mandy squeezed his hand quickly and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Please take care of yourself, Ian."

Then she slipped out of the room, and it was just him and Mickey again. Cigarette smoke filled the air. The familiar scent comforted him, and not just because it was something he’d inhaled most of his life. It was _Mickey’s_ smoke. Memories of secret fucks and shared cigarettes filtered through his mind like bright spots against a black canvas. 

Maybe if he and Mickey could make it work this time, he’d be able to get rid of that black canvas. Fill it up with the life he wanted to live. By his rules, and no one else’s.  It seemed more likely than ever before, now that Mickey had bared a long-denied part of himself in this little rescue mission, made it just so painfully obvious that Ian held more power in their relationship than he’d realized.

He passed out with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a fix-it for the lack of Ian-Mandy communication in 4x08, and 'cause of the look Mandy gives Mickey when she first sees him, like she was realizing something about her brother she'd never known before.
> 
> Unedited and tbh, not thrilled with it, but maybe getting this out'll free me up for other stuff. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Might write another chapter. Like a lot of people who'll end up here... I'm a bit obsessed with 'em. :)


End file.
